A Dollar Twenty Nine
by LondonBelow
Summary: Mark and Roger meet for the first time in the hospital. very preRENT


Disclaimer: I own nothing 

The piggy bank was a gift.

It was certainly not something the eight-year-old wanted for his birthday. He had asked for a guitar like "Keef Richards and John Lenin's", but money was fairly tight in those days. Roger tried to smile and be excited as he pulled the stiff brown paper away from a pair of jeans and two button-down shirts and a number of Dr. Seuss books, all of it used but new to him.

The bank was the most pleasing gift. "Does this mean I can have an allowance?" Roger asked hopefully, lisping slightly in the place where his tooth had fallen out.

"Maybe soon, Roger," his mother promised. "For now it's just a place to store the coins you pick up. I know you have some under your mattress."

"That's _my_ place! You can't look there!"

She winced and pressed her fingertips to her forehead. "Baby, please."

Roger pouted with his entire body. "Sorry," he said.

That evening as he dropped the coins one by one into the bank, Roger thought that maybe it wasn't so bad, after all. It was shaped like a frog. The frog had his mouth wide open and his tongue rolling out, so that as Roger pushed coins into the slot, his pennies, nickels, dimes and even the occasional quarter rolled along the frog's tongue. Roger giggled as one shining circle disappeared.

Did the frog enjoy the coins? They looked delicious to Roger. He liked it that way, so he soaked the coins and scrubbed them and kept them pretty, because then they looked like they were worth more and he was proud to roll them out onto the counter beside his gum and Twinkies.

He held a penny before his eyes. It shone under the bright light. Roger frowned. He licked it. Yukky. Maybe it tasted better from inside? He rolled the coin down his throat.

"Yuk!" Roger doubled over, hacking and coughing dramatically. He had fun with the theatrics, and when he had straightened again wondered if perhaps another coin would taste better. He picked one up…

---

Roger couldn't sleep. His throat and tummy hurt from having the coins sucked out of them. He was hungry but afraid and not allowed to eat anything. With an exasperated sigh, he kicked the blankets off of his leg. "Yow." Maybe that hadn't been a good move. Roger gathered the blankets and wrapped them around himself like a great cape, which he trailed over to the play corner.

Roger clicked on a lamp and settled himself with one of his new birthday books.

"Hi."

Roger looked up. Standing before him was a pale small boy with tousled blond hair and thickly framed glasses. He wore blue hospital pajamas, identical to Roger's. "What'cha reading?" the boy asked. Roger showed him and he nodded. "I like that book, too."

"I guess it's okay."

"I like it," the boy repeated.

Roger scowled. "I'm not that good at reading," he admitted. "But I'm just in second grade so it's okay to be not too good." Clearly he did not believe this.

"I don't read good either," the boy admitted.

Roger focused on him once more, interested. "Really?" he asked. The boy nodded. "Then what'cha got those thick specs for?"

"'Cause my eyes ain't so good."

"How old are you?"

"Almost 10."

"You don't look almost ten. What're you here for?"

The boy looked at his bare toes. "Tomorrow I'm having infusion," he said.

Roger frowned. "What's infusion?"

The boy shrugged. "I don't know. I got something bad. How come you're awake?" he asked.

"'Cause I couldn't sleep. It's cold here and I don't feel good. They put a tube in my throat." The boy nodded in agreement. "You wanna read with me? We can be not too good at it together." Again the boy nodded. He climbed into Roger's cocoon and curled up next to him. "What's your name?"

"Mark Cohen. Read to me?"

"'…_The Lorax_ by Doctor Seuss,'" Roger began.

When he had finished, Mark said, "I think you read good."

Roger beamed. "I do okay out loud," he said. "But in my head it's not words, I just hear all these songs an' stuff." Mark read a story to Roger then. He read slowly, sometimes trying to read the words backwards. "What grade are you in?" Roger asked.

"Third," Mark said.

"How come?" Roger asked. "You're supposed to be in… fi'th."

Mark nodded. "I skip school a lot," he said, "on the account of being really sick. But I'm supposed to finish third grade at Carter next year, if the infusion works okay. I missed too much to get credited this year."

Roger found himself smiling. "I'm at Carter," he said. "We'll be in class together next year."

When the night nurses tried to separate the boys and put them to bed, they refused to budge from one another's arms. The hospital beds were not so big and cold with two together. Nothing was so big and cold anymore, and it was all thanks to that ridiculous frog and $1.29 in change.

The End!

'Infusion' is chemotherapy.

Reviews would be appreciated!


End file.
